PS 3535 
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1919 
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BY 

ETHEL ROADS 

U 

Author of "After the War,'* "Romance cf a 
Guardsman^' "Eleven O'Clock,** etc. 



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Copyright 
Ethel Roads, Pottsville Pa. 



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©C;.A53 5o6 



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Contents 

Our Boys y 

The Faith of Belgium 10 

The Retreat from Antwerp 10 

Belgian Forgetmenots 12 

A Maid of Picardy 12 

A Little French Heroine 14 

The Poilu 15 

A Battle Anniversary 17 

The Phantom Army Ig 

His Letter ig 

L'HoMME Rouge 20 

England's Heroes 21 

Amato of the Piave 23 

Gone West 33 

The Return 34 

After the War 3g 

The Home Coming 45 



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The following short stories and poems which w€re 
published during the terrific strife of the World War 
are here presented in book form. Comments by people 
prominent in war work were made at that time; and sorwe 
of the remarks are briefly quoted below : 

President Poincare, of the French Republic, referring 
to "After the War:" "I congratulate you for the senti- 
ments which have inspired you." 

Dr. Jules Jusserand, the French Ambassador at Wash- 
ington : "I have noticed with emotion this touching writ- 
ing ('"After the War") which gives as much honor to 
your talent as a writer as it does to your heart as an 
American." 

Marechal Joffre, of France, sent a letter of congratula- 
tion on this same work, "After the War." 

Monsieur E. De Cartier, the Belgian Ambassador at 
W^ashington, referring to "The Retreat from Antwerp:** 
'T know that every American has a great feeling of sym- 
pathy for my fellow-citizens and I am always pleased when 
some of you express so beautifully and so heartily the 
feats of our gallant and wonderful army." 

Mr. James B. Neale, Fuel Administrator: "Miss Roads 
has caught the spirit of the times. Her little book ("After 
the War") will, doubtless, help much to maintain the 
happy relationship between France and America, which 
has long existed and to which great strength was added 
during the past four years." 

The Hon. Robert Heaton, who was at that time Con- 
gressman from Pennsylvania : "I am proud of someone in 
my own district having been so widely recognized." 



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Our Boys 

It is the morning; the hour is five. 
Gray, dull and sober the sun's rays arrive 
To light up the whole street, all fluttering bright 
With banners so gorgeous of red, blue and white. 
The people are coming to make their adieu 
To each loyal soldier, to colors so true. 
Some will come back, but others will stay. 
He's marching away. 

The people are cheering! They're proud of the 

boys ! 
And the soldiers march on in the heart of the noise ! 
The church chimes are pealing that often-heard 

hymn, 
''Onward, Soldiers of Christ.'' to the war's thickest 

din! 
Here they are coming ; so young and so strong, 
Row after row they are tramping along. 
And some will come back, but others will stay, 
He's marching away. 

"The Star Spangled Banner" is played by the 
bands, 

The "Stars and Stripes" flutter from everyone's 
hands. 

Thrilled and excited applauds the wild crowd, 

Thrilled and inspired are the soldiers so proud ; 

Above and about them the church bells are ringing ; 

Like prayers for the brave boys the angels are sing- 
ing. 

And some will come back, but others will stay. 

He's marching away. 

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See that young man ! On his shoulder a gun,- 

His mother is yonder ; he's her only son. 

He's going away — hark! how the crowd cheers! 

His face it is smiling; his heart full of tears. 

Loud play the bands as the soldiers go by 

And banners are waved ! There are many who cry ; 

For some will come back, but others will stay. 

He's marching away. 

Little *'kid" brother — see, there he goes ! 
His face is so youthful ; his cheeks like a rose. 
Fatherless boy, neither has he a mother, 
Only a very good, kind, elder brother. 
Quick a hard lump rises swift in his throat, 
Music inspiring sounds forth note by note. 
And some will come back, but others will stay. 
He's marching away. 



Yonder's a sweetheart who looks up the street, 
And searches for one while the many drums beat! 
Just as he's passing, this man among men — 
Will she or not ever see him again? 
Deep grows the pain which sharp cuts through her 

heart, 
But bravely she smiles as the soldiers depart ; 
For some will come back, but others will stay. 
He's marching away. 

There they are marching and tramping to war, 
Into the heart of the battle's great roar ; 
Each mother's soldier, each mother's dear boy — 
The one whom she reared as her pride, as her joy. 

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Wearing a brave smile he marches along 
To heart-breaking music of national song. 
And some ^vill come back, but others will stay. 
He's marching away. 

Soldiers are leaning far out of the train ; 
Cheering and screaming, the crowd's gone insane! 
Laughter and tears ! Wave the banners so gay ! 
Hark to the music the bands brightly play ! 
•'When Johnny Comes Home Again," join in and 
sing! 

But everyone's weeping— the church bells still ring ; 
For some will come back, but others will stay. 
He's riding away. 

Whistle has sounded, the train's pulling out, 
Cheer upon cheer and shout after shout ! 
Faces are dimmed by the rush of blind tears. 
Hearts left behind are so heavy with fears. 
Husky good-byes, murmured low — sad and faint, 
Brave tears are streaming — there is no restraint. 
And some will come back, but others will stay. 
He's riding away. 

Slowly the train moves ; it goes out of sight, 
Round nearby curve in the morning's gray light ; 
People are listening, are all standing still — 
Held is their breath, as far down the hill 
Traced by the engine's shrill, saddening wail, 
All know the train's on its way down the vale. 
And some will come back, but others will stay; 
He's riding away. 

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The Faith of Belgium 

[King Albert: — "I have faith in our destiny. A nation which 
defends itself compels respect. Such a country never perishes." — 
August, 1914.] 

Holy Mother ! With that mystery 
Ever veiled within Her eyes, 
Listens to the prayers of Belgium 
Which from earth to Her ari.se ; 
Seated on a Throne of Glory, 
By surrounding angels seen, 
Seraphim are doing homage 
To Our Lady, Heaven's Queen. 

Merciful and pure and gentle, 
Ever comforting each one 
Who discouraged and disheartened, 
Pleads to Her and Her alone, 
Motherly, She draws them to Her ; 
Soothes them, bids them start again, 
Promising Divine Assistance 
In this Struggle hard with men. 

Holy Virgin ! Thy great influence 
Sweeps the world by sinners trod, 
Belgium's faith will ne'er be shaken — 
Pray for us, O Mother of God. 



The Retreat from Antwerp 

[Details of this poem were told to the authoress by a Belgian 
soldier who had been one of the 30,000 heroes of Liege.] 

That afternoon, late in the day. 
The Belgian army marched away 
From Antwerp; glorious city where 
The Germans waged their grim warfare 
With pressure strong. 

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The heroes of Liege last turned, 
To view that city where they'd learned 
To stand for Right 'gainst Wrong and Might ; 
To ever follow God's great Light 
Which ever shines. 

Its silhouette against the sky, 
Majestic; 'bove the clouds so high, 
The Antwerp spire proud raised its head ; 
The blessing of the Church was shed 
Upon the men. 

A message floated o'er the plain, 
To each tired soldier quick it came ; 
''Have courage, au revoir ; don't fear. 
The day of thy return is near ; 
The foe is doomed." 

On marched the soldiers through the night, 
All silent; dreaming of that sight 
Of Antwerp's Church whose message gave 
Encouragement to every brave 
Heart Belgian. 

'Though homeless, driven by the foe. 
Where next to rest they did not know, 
Each heart was filled with faith divine; 
La Victoire would be theirs some time — 
The Antwerp spire. 



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Belgian Forgetmenots 

Beneath a sky unclouded, 

In a country cross the sea, 
There blossom fields of flowers 

As blue as blue can be. 

These flowers, bright and smiling, 

Touch of celestial hue, 
Salute the Flag of Belgium, 

Pay all homage which is due. 

For these tiny, tiny blossoms 
Are the souls of Belgium's dead : 

Soldiers, maidens, old folks who have loved 
The Yellow, Black and Red. 

And these spirits are returning, 
All the time to cheer their world, 

Soft to whisper, "Vive La Belgique,'* 
When their flag is swift unfurled. 



A Maid of Picardy 

A pansy bloomed fair in her beauty and youth, 

Down by the laughing brook, 
With purple and gold ; and her sweet, smiling face 

Drew all to this cool, shady nook. 
There grew by her side a lovely fern who 

Lovingly near her leaned. 
While he whispered his love and the hope in his 
heart, 

Of happiness of which he dreamed. 

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A bird from the treetop, a robin redbreast, 

Chirped to^the pansy shy, 
Oft' sang of his love while he coaxed her to live 

In his nest above near the sky. 

In Picardy there lives a maid. 

Who on the morrow bright will wed 
A hero of her country — France ; 

A soldier loyal, brave, who led 
His troops across the boundary line, 

In Nineteen-Fourteen days of war, 
Was wounded on fair Belgium's soil 

Where first was heard the cannon roar. 

Now one day a bee chanced to buzz near the brook, 

And saw the flow'r of gold ; 
Decided to wed her; ignoring protests. 

He carried her off, rough and bold. 
But the fern leaped to battle ; he fought for his love 

'Till his fine leaves were torn. 
But he saved the bright pansy; the bee was soon 
crushed. 

Of beauty the green fern was shorn. 
Then a young, fooHsh windflower down by the 
stream, 

Looked at pansy and said : 
"Surely you'll now choose the redbreasted bird, 

Robin, the songster, you'll wed." 

In Picardy there dreams a maid 

Who in the village church will vow 
To be the faithful, loving wife 

Of him who is a hero; now 

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His wounds and pains have made of him, 

An aged, crippled, helpless man 
But whose bright spirit typifies 

What famous France has done and can. 

But the pansy smiled sadly with dew on her face, 

Gazed at her soldier-knight, 
"I will marry only the hero who knows ; 

Who has suffered in this brutal fight." 
The heart of the fern was filled with joy, and 

Tenderly to his side, 
(The robin sang loud to conceal his lost hopes) 

He pressed close his true, faithful bride. 
A pansy blooms fair in her beauty and youth, 

Down by the silver brook, 
With purple and gold; and her happiness, joy 

Brings all to this cool, shady nook. 



A Little French Heroine 

When the Germans came to that village small, 
They captured the pretty French girls ; all 
But one whom they roughly pushed aside. 
While jeering and mocking her, they cried : 

"You hunchback pale, get out of the way ; 

We don't want witches, but maids to-day." 

Ah, little the officers knew her heart, 

Where the glorious spirit of Joan of Arc 

Lived ; daring, religious, brave. 

One love for France which she prayed to save 
Even as Domremy's peasant girl 
In the past did the Victory Flag unfurl. 

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One day while she stood by her cottage door, 

A dispatch' rider of France swift tore 

Down the road swept by German shell ; 

Was struck by a bullet and at her feet fell, 
Whispering where he had quickly been sent. 
That his failure in duty no French victory meant. 

But this peasant girl quickly searched his coat, 
Took the paper of value, the paper, the note 
Which would help save France from the cruel foe, 
Then off on her bicycle rode she — not slow 
But speeding along without fear in her heart. 
Upheld by the spirit of brave Joan of Arc. 

Shells burst to the left and burst to the right ; 
But she madly sped on ; for the horrible sight 
Of the field of battle with tide of blood 
Encouraged her for the France she loved. 

The bullets had struck her ; to pain she was numb. 

She soon reached headquarters and Victory was 
come. 

Her duty accomplished, she would not stay ; 
Regardless of wounds she hurried away. 
Back to her home, to the French soldier brave, 
Told him the valuable papers she gave 

To those in command. And France was saved 

Again by a little peasant maid. 

The dying soldier saluted Marie, 
And smilingly passed to Eternity. 

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The little French heroine — long may she live, 
To enjoy all the blessings which Heaven will give! 
And when in the last tranquil slumber she'll rest, 
We'll know her fair soul's in the land of the Blest ; 

That she's living with spirits who went to the 
tomb, 

That the Lilies of France forever would bloom. 



The Poilu 

They sat on a bench in the Bois Boulogne, 

The poilu and French Annette, 
And the soldier spoke of the bright, bright world, 

And some things he could never forget. 

"Just see how pink are the flowers here. 

Just look how they bow their heads, 
As the summer breeze thru the foliage sighs, 

And playfully sweeps the beds. 

**See, how the birds are flying about, 

How they flit from tree to tree ! 
Their feathers and wings catch the sunlight's rays. 

'Tis a beautiful sight to see ! 

"]\.\s\. look above to the sky, Annette, 

Look up to the field of blue 
Where float cloud-castles of old design, 

As I built in the past for you. 

"And see how the golden sunbeams fall 

On this floor of grassy green? 
Notice the lucky clovers-four 

Which hide in the blades between ! 

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"There flutters our tri-color flag, Annette, 

The same as at St. Quentin, 
When we pledged our lives to save our France ; 

Yes, down to the very last man. 

'T remember those banners the people waved ; 

I remember you stood at the door, 
And you smiled to me — there were tears on your 
face 

That day when I marched to war. 

"Ah, my Annette, 'tis a wonderful world 

Of color, of sunshine and light ! 
I am happy to see nature's treasures which bloom. 

In our France which has hard-won the fight." 

The French girl replied, "Oui, oui, mon Jean," 

As she wiped her tears away; 
For the poilu was blind and could not see 

The things he described that day. 

A Battle Anniversary 

Up the hill they hurried. 

The khaki-clad and blue. 
Civilians, men, and women, 

And little children, too. 
The church stood on the summit, 

In Sainte Genevieve, 
'Twas shell-torn, walls were gaping. 

Yet bells sweet pealing gave 
The call for mass so solemn, 

To celebrate that day, 
That battle won by Frenchmen 

When Germans came that way. 

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'Twas only four short years ago, 

The sons of brave France fought, 
And won the battle from the foe, 

Who pagan-like e'er sought 
To shell the little village church, 

Which loomed against the sky, 
Defying German shot and shell, 

Kept Faith for Help on High. 
So on the anniversary, 

September twenty-five. 
The people came to offer prayers, 

For those brave sons who'd died. 

The service was impressive. 

And yet 'twas simple, too; 
The good priest spoke of victory, 

And what great faith will do. 
He closed his solemn sermon 

With a blessing for our men 
Who'd come to crush the enemy, 

To make France free again. 



The Phantom Army 

A clear-voiced bugle rends the air ; 

'Tis not for mortal ears — 
A phantom army hears the call, 

From battleground appears. 
From Flanders' fields, from Picardy, 

From Alsace and Champagne, 
They're summoned by the bugle's voice, 

The spirits of the slain. 

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The sainted Joan of Arc awaits 

The heroes of her land, 
In armor clad with fleur-de-lis 

French standard in her hand ; 
And when the shadow army comes, 

Her message thus she gives : 
"I greet thee, soldiers, through thy work, 

Our France which bled now lives. 

"These words from the Most High I bring, 

Eternal life is thine ; 
Fidelity unto the death 

Has won a crown divine.'* 
Thus spoke the martyred Maid of France; 

The army bowed the head, 
Received the blessing from On High, 

And followed where she led. 



His Letter 



My little American sweetheart, cherie. 

This letter which comes o'er the blue dancing sea, 

Contains three sweet flowers of Red, White and 

Blue, 
Which bind our hearts closer ; our Republics, too. 

These flowers have blossomed in French soil so fair ; 
They've bloomed for my sweetheart who waits over 

there. 
I've made a bouquet, my American friend. 
And messages sweet with these flowers I send. 

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Here's a bright nodding tulip; the color is Red. 
And it stands for the brave soldiers' blood which 

was shed 
At the Chateau-Thierry, the Marne and the Sommc. 
These heroes are sleeping; each duty is done. 

Next comes a sweet flower — its color is White. 
A lily-of -valley of fabric so light 
That it seems like the soul of a hero who came 
Back to earth just to smile and be happy again. 

The last of my bouquet — the blossom is Blue. 
This flower-flag fragrant brings messages true 
Of the Love and the Faith which abides in our 

lands, 
In the Red, White, and Blue which you hold in your 

hands. 

Oh, the Red, White, and Blue ! The Red, White, 

and Blue ! 
The Flags of our countries, for me and for you. 
I'm sending this bouquet, cherie, over there, 
In hopes that you still love your soldat Pierre. 



L^Homme Rouge 

There is an ancient legend, 

Which the Britt'ny folks relate, 
'Tis of the Red Man wicked, 

With his flaming eyes of hate. 
He's dressed in crimson doublets. 

Scarlet hat, red shoes and hose, 
And a fire-illumination 

Follows him where'er he goes. 



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On the .rough wings of the tempest, 

With the raging of the gale, 
With the thunder and the lightning. 

Or with fall of snow and hail, 
He will come — this wicked Red Man, 

Omen of misfortune grim. 
Prophesying great disaster. 

To the one who dreams of him. 

So when the wild storm rages, 

And the winds begin to rise, 
When a light of angry crimson 

Sweeps across the blue-black skies, 
Then the folks of Britt'ny murmur, 

As they hurry home in fright, 
*T hope the Red Man wicked 

Will not visit me to-night." 

With the shrieking fiends of tempests, 
Quickly comes this scowling man, 

He's an omen of misfortune. 
Just avoid him if you can. 



England's Heroes 

Like incense the prayers of the world arose 

To the Throne of God Above, 
On the wings of Faith, of Confidence, Trust ; 

Relying for Help in His Love. 



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The British were firm as an iron wall 

When the German soldiers came 
To force their way to the coast; that day 

When the British won praise and fame. 
The English fought to their utmost strength 

To decide their country's fate : 
They fought like heroes, men ; while the foe 

Chanted a ''Song of Hate." 

And guns grew hot under rapid fire ; 

While the air with shot and shell 
Was filled with death for the barb'rous hordes, 

With the raging flames of hell. 
There were bursting bombs and a shrapnel rain ; 

While the thund'ring cannons' roars 
Made the earth vibrate; howitzers screamed 

In this bloody war of wars. 

The hordes approached but they could not pass. 

In spite of the slaughter that night, 
The British unyielding, fought on, fought to win, 

While comrades fell left and fell right. 
But when the sun rose on the morrow's gray 
morn. 

And gleamed on the red battlefield, 
The onrush was checked ; and the enemy held — 

Defeat for the foe was revealed. 

Like incense the prayers of the world arose, 

In thanks to the God Above, 
On the wings of Faith, of Confidence, Hope, 

Which trusted for Help in His Love. 

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Amato of the Piave 

This is the story Amato, the returned ItaHan pris- 
oner, related to his beloved Guido and the fair 
lolanda. They believed him ; they knew it was no 
dream ; they believed every word their long-suffer- 
ing brother said ; and, as they heard his tale, their 
faith in the saints increased and they rejoiced that 
they lived under the protection of the good San 
Marco, the patron saint of Venice. 

It was one evening at sunset in the month of 
November in the year 1917 that Amato, the Italian 
aviator, drove his plane northward towards the Alps. 
He was worried; his thoughts were of the danger 
ever approaching his beloved country, of the barbar- 
ous enemy approaching to devastate Italy even as 
Attila, the Hun, had done in centuries gone by. 
Then besides, Amato had a brother, a sunny-faced, 
happy youth, who was in the thickest part of the 
battle, fighting in the artillery. Amato loved Guido 
with all the love in his heart and soul; loved the 
young soldier more than any one in the world. 
Though he was proud that the boy was on the 
bloody fighting line, yet he longed to know that 
Guido's dear life was safe. "I would be proud that 
he died for Italy," thought the broad-minded 

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Amato; ''y^t I long to know that he lives." Such 
were the conflicting emotions which rose in the 
aviator's heart. 

As he flew over Venice, the city of his birth, he 
glanced down. Tears filled his eyes as he noticed 
the gray-touched domes, belfries and spires of St. 
Mark's Cathedral. Their brilliancy was dulled for 
their safety and preservation. The "Queen of the 
Adriatic'* no longer wore bright, gorgeous colors ; it 
was war-time. No gondalos glided, swan-like and 
graceful, down the Grand Canal; the days and 
nights were no longer filled with music and happi- 
ness. All was quiet, in keeping with the grey- 
touched domes. Yet as Amato beheld, the reflection 
of the glorious after-glow could not be dulled. In 
spite of the war the waters were changed from 
crimson to gold, from emerald to rose-pink, and 
playfully encircled the many isles. 

Amato drove on. The golden sunset light which 
veiled Venice's beauty, a few pale stars in the east, 
recalled to him that night would soon come, and that 
there would be perfect silence in the "Queen of the 
Adriatic," that no dazzling lights, no music would 
add to her fascinating charms. His thoughts 
drifted to the past, the happy past before the war. 
One evening in particular swept across the vision of 
his recollections. Guido had been so happy. He 
remembered how his brother with a throbbing gui- 

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tar had chanted passionate love-songs to lolanda, 
his betrothed, who reclined on cushions in the gon- 
dola. He recalled how he had watched them while 
he, with a never-tiring arm, propelled the gondola 
forward, ever following the shivering path of 
gold from a light-flooding moon. Amato remem- 
bered when Guido's song was ended they heard the 
fishermen out at sea singing "Santa Lucia." The 
lingering melody was borne to poetical and roman- 
tic Venice by the fresh salt breezes of the Adriatic. 
How long ago it seemed ! That night had been a 
dream of bliss and joyous charm. Guido had been 
so happy. Dear little Guido, where was he ? 

"Yes, where is he now? And what is he doing?" 
thought Amato as he raised his eyes from the city 
he loved and prepared for a quick advance to the 
front. But he gave a start and wondered if he were 
dreaming. In truth a languor had been slowly steal- 
ing over him during his reverie of the past. He 
tried to shake off this languor, but it was impossible. 
He looked again; his first impression had not been 
wrong. He beheld a beautiful pigeon perched to 
one side of his plane; its pearl-colored wings 
changed to the pink of a rosebud by the fading day- 
light. Amato had no difficulty in recognizing one 
of the pigeons of Saint Mark's Square; he smiled 
at the feathery visitor. How many times he and 
Guido had fed the birds. The pigeon regarded 

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Amato, then flew away, and by some subtle power 
Amato realized that he must follow the bird 
wherever it led. It was as if he were living in a dream 
when one's actions are susceptible to an unknown 
influence. He turned his plane. The pigeon made a 
downward flight towards Venice and Amato at once 
followed, dreamy and only half-conscious of his 
actions. Down they went, the bird and the air- 
plane. Amato wondered where he was being led. 
Then in a short time, as the pigeon fluttered to his 
shoulder, he knew the descent was over. He slowly 
circled about. The pigeon had led him to St. Mark's 
Square. The place was deserted ; no one w^as to be 
seen. They were opposite the great portal of the 
magnificent cathedral, and as Amato wondered why 
he had been brought thither the doors were sud- 
denly thrown open. In a blinding blaze of glory 
two figures appeared. Amato for some peculiar rea- 
son at once recognized them. The white-robed 
figure was St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice. 
The other, wearing a robe of purest blue with a face 
of wondrous beauty and kindness, was St. Barbara, 
the patron saint of the Italian artillery. 

Forward they came, as Amato descended to the 
Square, and smiled compassionately and benevo- 
lently. Amato reverently bowed. 

''Amato, wilt thou take St. Barbara and me to 
the north ?" asked St. Mark in a gentle voice. 'Ttaly 

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is in grave danger, but the prayers of the loyal and 
the devout have been heard. We go to answer 
them.'* 

"To bring victory to Italy according to the 
prayers of her people," said St. Barbara. 

Amato felt no sense of fright or awe. The pres- 
ence of these saints soothed and inspired him with 
courage, bravery and faith. ''Any commands which 
thou givest I will devoutly obey," he replied. 

"To the north," said St. Mark while he and St. 
Barbara seated themselves in the airplane and the 
little pigeon was still perched on the aviator's 
shoulder. 

Forward Amato drove, onward and onward. It 
did not seem extraordinary to be transporting saints 
— they who can be everywhere at the same time. 
For he knew that the saints often ask the aid of 
mortals merely to test the devotion, the loyalty of 
their servants. So on he drove with increasing 
courage and faith. As they reached the Alps he was 
bidden to stop; and among the rugged mountains 
whose snow-capped peaks seemed to pierce the sky, 
the airplane hovered. The Piave rushed along, 
roaring and tumultuous ; it seemed to prophesy dan- 
ger. The voice of the river warned the courageous 
Italians of the advancing Austrians. 

Amato looked down and with a cry beheld Guido 
and others struggling with ropes to haul up the 

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steep mountain-side parts of a great cannon. It was 
hard work, but their efforts were crowned with 
success, for in a short time the massive cannon 
rested on the summit, ready to roar forth defiance 
and defense to the invaders. 

Amato suddenly beheld the Austrians coming. 
Numberless hordes were rushing forward. The can- 
nons roared. * * * Xhe Piave was lighted by a 
hideous red glow as if the infernal regions had sud- 
denly opened and the demons were liberated. On 
came the savage enemy. They were met by a firm, 
strong resistance. The Itahans fought as never 
before ; the heroes fell. * * * 

Amato looked, thrilled and fascinated ; he longed 
to be down in the thick of the battle. His blood 
rose at the sight of his brave countrymen falling. 
* * * Suddenly he raised his head and that 
which met his gaze filled him with horror. 

Hideous-mouthed, evil things breathing fire, 
disease and devastation, were creeping over his 
airplane. They were the evil spirits, the wicked 
thoughts of the enemy fighting below. These things 
regarded Amato with leering eyes as slowly creep- 
ing forward they formed a circle around him. A 
shudder of repugnance shook Amato's body. He 
realized he was dealing with Austrian demons. The 
foul creatures ever crept nearer. 

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Below raged the battle on the Piave. The Ital- 
ians were fighting despverately. 

**Have no fear, Amato," said St. Mark encour- 
agingly, and the aviator watched the two saints in 
breathless awe. 

St. Mark and Santa Barbara rose; they looked 
above to the darkening skies. Then slowly making 
the sign of the Cross — even as in ancient times 
when beautiful Venice was threatened — they stood 
still and waited. 

At once a beautiful cloud tinted with the delicate 
hues of the rainbow appeared ; and as it parted 
Amato beheld rose-winged angels gently touching 
golden lyres. He could hear the musical voices of 
cherubs and seraphim who fluttered above swinging 
censors of incense ; and the language in which they 
sang was Italian. For as the French say, "Italienne 
est la langue des anges." (Italian is the language of 
the angels.) * * * In the background rose that 
emblem of Christianity and Eternal Life, that sign 
which the saints had just made — the Holy Cross 
bright and glorious with the Everlasting Light of 
Immortality. 

Amato trembled and covered his eyes, yet he felt 
no fear. Conflicting emotions of awe and tranquil- 
ity rose in his heart. * * * Suddenly he raised 
his head ; for, as the evil things on his airplane 

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beheld the Cross, they disappeared with shrieks of 
rage and bitter disappointment. For evil can never 
exist in an atmosphere permeated by Faith and 
Christianity. 

At the same moment down on the bloody battle- 
field the Italians were suddenly encouraged and that 
famous sentence, those words which have thrilled 
every Italian heart were uttered by the heroes of the 
Piave— "They shall not pass." ''Non passaranno." 

A wild feeling of rejoicing swept over Amato. 
St. Mark smiled and the aviator knew Victory 
would come to Italy, that the enemy would never 
cross the Piave, would never invade the land of 
music and poetry. 'They shall not pass," and the 
Italians have kept their promise ; the Austrians have 
never and will never pass. 

Suddenly Amato's joy was changed to terror and 
grief. He beheld his beloved Guido surrounded, 
being taken captive. * * h« ^ loathsome prison- 
camp where the brutal Austrians would make him 
suffer, would torture him. Already Amato could 
see his Guido whom he loved more than life itself, 
emaciated, starved, forced to labor, dying by inches 
— the bright, cheerful, laughing Guido — to be mal- 
treated, abused. Quickly the aviator with tears in 
his eyes entreated the saints to free his brother. 

"Spare him, St. Mark, our patron saint. Let 
Guido be free and send me to suffer in his place. 

Pagf 30 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

Let me endure the tortures of the prison-camp, not 
Guide. Grant me this request, St. Mark." 

St Mark's voice was very kind. There was a 
bright light in his eyes, the kind of light which 
radiated from the Holy Cross Amato had beheld a 
moment before. **Why dost thou desire to suffer 
for thy brother?" he asked quietly. 

"Because I love him." 

"Dost thou realize that thou wilt be a prisoner ; 
that thou wilt endure the miseries of a slave and the 
tortures which only infidels and pagans can devise?" 

Amato looked down and saw the Austrians were 
leading Guido away. The battle still raged, but 
victory was smiling on the loyal Italians. The Piave 
was filled with Austrian dead. 

"Yes, yes, I can endure all and everything. 
Guido has toiled so hard — he has lolanda and is so 
young. He has so much to live for." Amato's 
words were incoherent, but the saints understood. 
They read his heart. 

Then it was that St. Barbara spoke. "Even 
though death will be thy fate after months of hard- 
ship, starvation and disease ?" 

"Rather let me suffer than Guido," steadily 
replied Amato, and the saints pressed him no longer 
with questions. 

"Thy prayer shall be granted," said St. Mark, 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

and there was a divine expression on his face. 
*'Thou shalt take thy brother's place, thou shalt suf- 
fer for him and shalt die — later. 'Greater love hath 
no man than this, that a man lay down his life for 
his friend.' " 

Then the saints blessed Amato and promised 
Eternal Life. A rainbow-tinted cloud appeared and 
hid them from his eyes. But as the cloud drifted 
away the presence of the saints remained to encour- 
age and comfort him. And the little pigeon still 
perched on the aviator's shoulder. 

Suddenly a noise was heard above the roar of 
the cannon. He beheld three enemy planes appear- 
ing in different directions. He smiled; he was a 
brave Italian. He met his fate like a loyal son 
of Italy. 

But as the gray walls of the Austrian prison 
camp closed about him he heard sweet music such 
as had come to his ears when the demons had been 
driven from his airplane by Christianity. He beheld 
St. Mark, his patron saint, with three fingers 
upraised to bless him. Then the vision faded and 
was gone. 

"O Italy, O Guido ! It is sweet to suffer and to 
know that victory has come," and the pigeon, which 
had ever remained with him, spread his pearl-white 
wings and flew back to Venice with this last 
message. 

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UXDER ALLIED COLORS 



Such is the story Amato, the returned Italian 
prisoner, related. As he finished he sank into Guido's 
and lolanda's arms. A bright Hght swept over his 
emaciated face and, smihng peacefully, his soul left 
his beloved Italy and soared to realms immortal. 



rone 



West 



As the sun sinks beyond the horizon, 

'Mid the glory of bright-tinted sky, 
So the soul of a hero is wafted 

To regions unknown; and we try 
By our knowledge to fathom the myst'ry; 

We remember — our doubts all have ceased, 
That the orb which has vanished at sunset. 

To-morrow will rise in the east. 




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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

The Return 

our clouded eyes 
Fill, Father, with another light; 
That we may see with clearer sight, 
Thy servant's soul in Paradise. 

— Ambrose Bierce. 

It was raining. The lightning flashed, the 
thunder rolled and the wind violently tore at the 
gold-starred service flag hanging from the porch 
roof. The soldier's mother from the sheltered cor- 
ner where she sat, knitted and thought, knitted and 
dreamed. Every time she raised her head, her 
eyes rested on the honor banner ; and her thoughts 
became gloomier and more depressed. Yet she was 
a brave little American mother; no one had ever 
heard her complain. 

The story of that service flag. It was like all 
other tales of patriotism, loyalty, devotion to the 
cause, bravery in the face of death, unselfishness 
to a comrade, and of making that last supreme 
sacrifice for his country that his mother and other 
people's mothers might live in peace and happiness. 
That was all ; but the very thoughts filled the moth- 
er's heart with pain, yet at the same time pride that 
her boy, her only son, had died an American hero. 
He was slumbering peacefully and tranquilly — 
overseas, sleeping on the side of a little hill with his 
comrades. 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

Pale lightning forked the grayish sky for a 
moment and the muttering of the thunder could be 
heard far away. The storm would soon be over. 

The mother put aside her knitting and closed 
her eyes. She thought of the last time she had seen 
her boy. Here he had stood only a year ago, clad 
in khaki, attempting to smile cheerfully. He had 
looked so young and strong, a perfect type of 
American manhood. 

''Good-bye, little mother o' mine," he had said 
huskily while he tenderly put his arms around her. 
"You've been the best pal I ever had !" Then he 
said no more * * >!< a moment later he shoul- 
dered his gun and was off. 'T'm coming back !" he 
called. "I'll come back to you — some day." 

Tears filled the mother's eyes and a great long- 
ing swept through her heart. She was proud of 
her hero. Who would not be? But she just wanted 
to be comforted. He had been swept from her life 
so suddenly, so completely ; he was gone * * * 
In a neighbor's house the rich, mellow voice of a 
'cello was sweetly singing, *T Hear You Calling 
Me," and the refrain harmonized with her thoughts. 
" *ril come back,' he said," she murmured. "Poor 
boy! how little he thought that he would never 
again come back to me. He is gone." 

The sun's rays were beaming brighter and 
brighter. 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

Something lightly brushed her cheek and open- 
ing her eyes, she beheld a beautiful butterfly quiver- 
ing and fluttering on her shoulder. It flew to her 
hand and gracefully poised there. The mother 
noticed with a thrill that its lovely wings were col- 
ored brown with fine stripes of yellow, blue and 
scarlet * * * Was it possible? Could it be? 
* * * Her heart beat quickly and a feeling of 
comfort and content swept over her, driving away 
the depressed, gloomy thoughts * * * She 
hardly breathed for fear the frail, little moth would 
fly away ; she sat perfectly still. 

Brighter and brighter became the sun's rays; 
and as the curtain of gray was rolled back, the dis- 
tant mountains reappeared and the lawn, fresh and 
wet, with the flowers smiling and nodding, again 
was seen. The storm was over. 

The little butterfly fluttered for a moment; the 
mother tried to keep it, but, spreading its beautiful 
wings, it flew to the blossoms — then flew far away 
and — was gone. But the great contentment which 
filled the soldier's mother's heart remained to ever 
recall to her the butterfly's visit. 

The mother raised her eyes to the now clear, 
smiling skies and beheld a lovely rainbow of delicate 
hues arching itself over the mountains. ''He has 
kept his promise," she murmured. *'He has come 
back to me." 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

The birds were gaily twittering in the trees, the 
'cello across the way was happily singing another 
refrain and the whole world rejoiced and shared the 
contentment and happiness which the butterfly's 
visit had brought. 




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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

After the War 

It is Paris in the year 19 — . The sunlight spar- 
kles on the beautiful Seine; it touches the roofs of 
the Louvre, of the dome of the Hotel des Invalides, 
shines on the Obelisk of Luxor, glitters on the 
ancient Notre Dame and the Pantheon ; and quickly 
tracing the broad Champs Elysees it fondly lingers 
on the glorious Arc de Triomphe. Paris remained 
unharmed thruout the World War. 

On this particular bright morning in May sup- 
pressed excitement is in the air. Although the hour 
is yet early all the French people are astir, peasants, 
students, artists, soldiers. The beautiful bridges, 
spanning the serpentine river are crowded with 
pedestrians who move forward past the Hotel de 
Ville, on past the Place de la Bastille, onwards ever 
towards the cemetery — Pere La Chaise. All these 
people carry garlands, wreaths or bouquets. Their 
faces are serious. The women in mourning have 
tearful eyes ; the men, most of them bearing honor- 
able scars of the battlefield, are grave and quiet. 
But the little children, those to whom the late war is 
but a story, they hurried forward, light-footed and 
happy, rejoicing in the fact that it is a patriotic 
holiday. 

A patriotic day. Can it be one when the French 
with saddened faces are on their way to Pere La 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

Chaise ? But bok ! See, in the passing throng there 
are some people from another great republic ; others 
who, also bearing lovely garlands of spring's most 
beautiful flowers, are hastening on to the well-known 
burying-place. Among these there are black-garbed 
women, there are crippled men, there are laughing 
children. Each one, however, wears a tiny Red, 
White and Blue Flag. Is it necessary to state who 
they are? But why are these Americans so anxious 
to reach Pere La Chaise ? 

At the Place de la Concorde a few of our coun- 
trymen are waiting. They are standing by one of 
the eight great, beautiful statues which have repre- 
sented the chief cities of France for many years and 
which still represent them. This particular statue 
by which our friends wait, is that of Strasbourg, the 
city lost in 1871, but restored to the French after the 
World War. It is no longer draped in black. 
Instead beautiful American and French Flags flutter 
above to remind the world of the recent past. 

Included in this group of people is a woman 
who, gowned in sombre black, gives the impression 
of having many more years than she has. Her face 
bears the traces of a heart sorrow never to be 
erased by time. She is a war widow of the United 
States of America. Since the death of her husband 
she has devoted her life to caring for her little son 
who had never beheld his hero-father. 

Page S9 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

Herbert, the little boy, dressed as a United States 
sailor, stands by his mother's side, carrying a great 
wreath of immortelles tied with our brilliant colors, 
Red, White and Blue. He looks very serious, for he 
was told of the importance of this great occasion, 
this patriotic day in France. 

The third member of this party is the war 
widow's father-in-law. He is an old, white-haired, 
saddened man, an American who had won much 
commendation for his work in the crisis of 1917. 
Herbert was not the only son he had lost. Two 
more were peacefully slumbering in French soil. 
He also carries a wreath of the fairest blossoms of 
the land. 

The excitement is becoming more intense. The 
crowds are swelling as the many French and the 
fewer Americans continue to stream on, on in the 
same direction. Omnibuses and automobiles roll by 
quickly, rapidly, filled with people, garlands, bou- 
quets and wreaths. 

''When are we going, mother?" asks the little 
American boy. 

**As soon as our friend comes, dear," replies the 
war widow. "See! There he is now. Go to meet 
him and we'll leave at once for Fere La Chaise." 
* * ^ Fere La Chaise * * * Her eyes are 
filled with unshed tears as she remembers her 
beloved is sleeping there, her soldier who gave his 

Page 40 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

life for his country. The beautiful roses in her arms 
* * * they are for him. Her depressed 
thoughts are interrupted by the return of Herbert 
with a tall, young- man whose face is far too grave 
and serious for his years. Formerly he was a Bel- 
gian boy cruelly treated by the barbarous Germans 
on their invasion into Belgium ; but who thru the 
goodness of the generous-hearted Americans was 
clothed, fed, educated and protected till the grue- 
some World War was over. His gratitude to Amer- 
ica will forever live in his heart. 

Warmly he greets his kind friends and relieves 
the war widow of the flowers. The father leads the 
way to the automobile which has waited on the 
Champs Elysees; he has noticed the courtesy and 
kind attention shown his daughter-in-law and he 
secretly marvels. Were it not for the genius-like 
inventions developed by the medical profession this 
Belgian would be a helpless cripple. 

There is silence as the car wends its way towards 
Pere La Chaise, ever leaving far behind on the sum- 
mit of the hill the Arc de Triomphe which has 
always presided over Paris, prophesying '^Victory." 
The father is very grave and thoughtful. He calls 
up in review the past and he again sees his three 
boys marching away to war. Three fine, stalwart 
American soldiers uniformed in the familiar khaki. 
He remembers how Walter, the lively rascal, 

Page 41 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

laughed and said, "Have the bands out for me, dad, 
when I get back." And the father can see the look 
of tenderness and love in Herbert's big, blue eyes as 
he said: ''Take good care of Ruth." The slight 
quiver to Gerald's chin as he kissed his mother 
good-by forever recalled the parting with the 
youngest of the boys. * * * The eyes of the 
white-haired patriot are moist as each fleeting detail 
sweeps before his vision. And now on this beauti- 
ful May day in 19 — he is in sunny France to decor- 
ate the graves of his hero-soldiers. 

A few moments later and the automobile reaches 
Pere La Chaise. The cemetery is crowded with peo- 
ple, men, women and children from all stations, 
ranks, and professions, each bearing the sweetest 
flowers of the country. Our three American friends 
together with the Belgian descend from the automo- 
bile and moving slowly thru the multitude, reach a 
platform elaborately decorated in American and 
French Flags. Seated on this rostrum are officers 
in uniform; but only one wears the well-known 
khaki of the United States. As the party 
approaches this American officer hastens to greet 
them. Warmly he clasps the outstretched hand of 
his countryman; kindly he welcomes the war 
widow and leads her to a seat beside his French 
brothers. The Belgian and Herbert with bouquets 
of roses and wreaths of immortelles find chairs in 

Page 4^ 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

the rear and impatiently, anxiously await the open- 
ing of the great exercises of America and France. 

Nine o'clock, the appointed hour, is arrived. The 
people of the two republics are waiting; they turn 
towards the platform with expectant faces, ready to 
listen. The French Infantry stand at attention ; an 
American bugler, a veteran of the World War, is 
seen to one side, also a band of khaki-clad musicians 
who had encouraged "our boys" more than once in 
the days of 1917-19 — . There is silence in Pere La 
Chaise. The golden sunlight is bright, beautiful, 
clear; the zephyrs are mild, balmy, caressing. The 
sky is turquoise-blue. It is a perfect day. 

The American officer steps forward. This man 
of indomitable will, of courage, bravery and firm 
resolution feels saddened and depressed. As he 
faces his audience, his eyes wandering beyond fall 
on the many, many mounds headed by white 
crosses. * * * His boys. His heart is brimful 
of tears and for a moment his sight is blurred by 
a mist. * * * The breezes lightly blow to and 
fro. * * * He feels that his American soldiers, 
those whom he led into battle not long ago, are lis- 
tening to his words as intently as these living citi- 
zens whose interest and enthusiasm is so keen. 

"People of France and America, we have met on this 
day to commemorate the lives of our illustrious dead; to 

Page 4? 



UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

decorate the graves of our heroes who have fallen on the 
field of battle. 

"Not long ago, our American boys came over here to 
repay the debt v^e owed France. They gave to you, citi- 
zens of France, the same assistance which your brave 
Lafayette gave to America in the past. 

"Our boys bore the 'Stars and Stripes' thru bloody 
battles together with your tri-colored banner. Both were 
always waved triumphantly over the vanquished enemy. 

"The toll of this glorious Victory was the lives of our 
heroes, of our staunch soldiers and of your brave boys. 
Yet their spirits live in this all-beautiful, immortal uni- 
verse; the work they accomplished lives in the hearts of 
the freed and peaceful world; their loyalty, bravery and 
devotion will forever live on the pages of history; and 
* * * in each individual heart, somewhere in America, 
somewhere in France, each soldier-memory lives glorified ! 

"People of France, this day has been set aside for the 
decorating of the soldiers' graves, for the sake of the 
•white-haired mothers in America, the sad-faced widows, 
those bereaved families who have never and will never 
behold the last resting-places of their loved boys. Even 
as we Americans commemorate a Memorial Day in remem- 
brance of other American heroes who, upholding Liberty, 
bled and died for the same Righteous Cause, so do you 
have such a Memorial Day in your country. Into your 
hands, French people, we leave the charge of caring for 
these graves ; and those far across the sea are comforted 
by the thought that their boys' tombs will always be 
remembered. For it is known that 'France never forgets.' 

"And every time you decorate the grave of a French 
hero, place a bouquet and murmur a prayer for the soul 
of his brother tranquilly sleeping by his side — an American 
soldier boy ! 

" 'Behold, I will gather thee to thy fathers, and thou 
shalt be gathered to thy grave in peace.' " 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

As the American officer brings his address to a 
close there is silence. =^ * * the French sol- 
diers stand at attention. Three times the squad fires 
and as the echoes rumble into nothingness, the 
American bugler steps forward and sounds taps. 
* * * The band strikes up the thrilling, war- 
like "Marseillaise" followed immediately by the 
glorious, swelling refrain, "The Star Spangled Ban- 
ner," while the people decorate the graves of the 
soldiers. 

October 13, 1917. 




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The Home Coming 

28th Division 



After the war; and the great day has come, 
To welcome the heroes of Argonne, Soissons, 
Of Chatean-Thierry, La Bonne Maison, Fismes, 
This beautiful triumph morn seems like a dream. 
The city is smiling in draperies gay 
Of Red, White and Blue ; and on the long way 
Of the line of parade "Old Glory'' waves bright, 
With flags of the Allies. 'Tis victory's sight!! 

To quick, swinging music the heroes ! they come ! 
Wild waving of banners, loud beating of drum! 
A Babel of sounds ! Cheering, shouting with joy, 
Each patriot welcomes each brave soldier boy. 
And yonder's the comp'ny we watched march 

away — 
'Twas two years ago on a fair summer's day. 
That line of young heroes, all silent, so stern — 
Of many brave deeds which we never will learn. 
The captain — we know him — he still leads his boys, 
— Bells, whistles are blowing, a gale of mad noise ! 
Those brown ranks are thinner ; we miss now and 

then. 
The well-'membered faces of some of the men. 
An airplane is humming and overhead flies. 
Drops flowers and victory-wreaths from the skies 
As if for those laddies who sleep 'cross the sea, 
Who died for America, you and for me. 
But cheer for the heroes who march down the 

street, 

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UNDER ALLIED COLORS 

The olive-drab soldiers who ne'er knew retreat, 
Were fighters efficient to cope with the Hun, 
There they go ! Croix de Guerre, helmet and gun. 
But hark ! Now a cheering swells strong in the air, 
A thrill sweeps the multitude. Look ! Over there 
Are laughing and smiling from automobile 
Our wounded boys. Heroes ! The frenzied crowds 

feel 
The hardships of war at the Oise and the Aisne. 
Our wounded boys. Cheer, shout yet louder — 

again ! ! 

After the war ; and we greet on this day, 
America's fighters from French Taille d'Abbe 
From Petits Boureuilles ; and where cannon roar 
Crushed onrushing German on Hill two naught 

four ; 
Where valor and courage and sweet liberty, 
Were proudly upheld on Hill two thirty-three. 
All hail to our heroes who march in the light 
Of the Cross. Our Crusaders! 'Tis victory's 

sight ! ! 



Page 47 



